


Bandslam!

by Paper_Crane_Song



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Humor, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:01:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25073554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paper_Crane_Song/pseuds/Paper_Crane_Song
Summary: Word has it that a certain armoury officer has a very nice singing voice.
Relationships: Malcolm Reed & Charles "Trip" Tucker III
Comments: 53
Kudos: 36
Collections: Reed's Armory Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Confession time: Sometimes when I listen to music, I imagine characters from my favourite TV shows singing the words and playing the instruments. This particular story’s been in my head for a while now, and I thought it would be fun to have a go at actually writing it down. (The title has nothing to do with the film with the same name, I just thought it sounded cool) 
> 
> Set during the latter part of season 2. Thanks for reading along, and your thoughts are always welcome.

“Open mic night?” Trip repeated, as he and Travis set their trays down next to Hoshi. 

“Sure,” said Travis. “We used to do them all the time on the _Horizon_.”

“It’s some kind of musical evening, right?” Hoshi said, helping herself to more salad.

“Not just music. People told stories, juggled, whatever they felt like. It was pretty casual.”

“Did you take part?”

“Of course,” said Travis, beaming at the memory. “I played guitar.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you played.” Hoshi shared an amused smile with Trip.

“When you grow up on a cargo ship you have plenty of time to practise, believe me.” He reached for the salt. “Do you guys play anything?”

“Do the drums count?” Trip said, just as Hoshi said, “I play the erhu.”

“What’s an erhu?” said Trip. 

“It’s like a Chinese violin, only without so many strings.”

“Okay,” Travis said, clapping his hands. “So guitar, drums, erhu. We could get a band together, play a group piece.”

Hoshi smiled apologetically. “The erhu’s really more of a solo instrument.”

“Well, I think an open mic’s a great idea,” said Trip. “I bet the Captain would go for it.”

“And it makes a change from movie night,” Travis added.

“What’s wrong with movie night?” Trip said, frowning.

“You know,” said Hoshi, ignoring the interplay in front of her, “if you need a singer for your band, you should ask Lieutenant Reed.”

Travis and Trip turned to stare at her.

“Malcolm?” said Trip. 

She nodded as she began tidying up her tray. “He’s pretty good.”

“How would you know?” said Travis. 

“I was sitting next to him when we sang happy birthday to Liz Cutler in the messhall last week.”

“Yeah, but how much can you really tell from one verse of happy birthday?” Trip still sounded scandalised.

Hoshi stood up with her tray. “You should ask him. Trust me. He’s good.” 

* * *

  
The following week, Trip and Travis were in the messhall again when they saw Malcolm sitting by himself, examining a padd intently. 

“Lieutenant,” Travis said, putting his tray down. “Reading anything interesting?”

Malcolm looked up. “Actually, yes. The design schematics for this new starship they’re building.” 

“ _Columbia,_ ” Trip supplied, sitting down opposite him. 

Malcolm nodded and leant forward. “The ship’s due to be outfitted with three times the number of phase cannons Enterprise has, yet the phase modulator specs don’t appear to have compensated for their combined projected yield.”

“What?” said Trip, taking the padd from him, “That can’t be right- “

Travis coughed significantly.

“Anyway,” Trip said, recollecting himself. “Look Malcolm, we’ve got something we need to ask you.”

“Oh?” Malcolm said, suddenly wary. 

“You’ve heard about the open mic night in a couple of weeks.”

“Vaguely.”

“The Commander and I are forming a band,” Travis said enthusiastically. 

“How delightful.” Malcolm’s expression said otherwise. 

Slightly deflated, Travis looked to Trip for help. 

Trip cleared his throat. “We want you to be our lead singer.”

Malcolm ducked his head. “It’s not really my sort of thing.”

“But you’re good,” Travis said.

“Who told you that?”

“Hoshi. She said she heard you when you were singing happy birthday to Crewman Cutler last week.”

“Well, ability and pleasure don’t always go hand in hand, Ensign.”

“What’s the matter,” Trip said, “you scared?”

Malcolm looked him straight in the eye. “Yes.”

Trip was caught unawares. “Well... don’t be.”

“A compelling argument.”

“At least think about it,” Travis said before Trip could retort.

Malcolm sighed. “I’m sure there are lots of other perfectly good singers onboard Enterprise, I don’t see why you can’t just go and bother one of them. Now, if you don’t mind - “ he held out his hand for the padd.

Begrudgingly, Trip gave the padd back, and he and Travis took their trays and relocated to another table.

“He’s right, you know,” Travis said. “We should go ask someone else.”

“Nah, he’s just being stubborn. I’ll change his mind.”

“I don’t think so,” Travis said doubtfully, looking back over at Malcolm. “He seemed pretty definite.”

“I gotta get back to Engineering.” Trip took a final bite of his lunch and stood up. “You just find us someone who can play bass. I’ll deal with Malcolm.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Trip**

He’s learning to read Malcolm, slowly. For all that Malcolm is a man of few words, his expressions speak volumes, if you’re watching closely enough. 

He’s not sure when he first realised that. Maybe it was on the shuttlepod, while they were slowly freezing to death. He’d needled away at Malcolm, angry that he was giving up so easily, trying to shake him out of his pessimism, to get a reaction - until at last, Malcolm gave him one. 

_“I lost nearly everyone I cared about on that ship.”_

Here he thought Malcolm had been embracing death as part of some fatalistic gesture, but in actual fact Malcolm had been grieving. He’d pushed Malcolm into giving an account of himself, and then he sat, guilt-stricken, as Malcolm explained himself in a voice that was heavy and thick and laced with tears. He’d realised in that moment just how deeply Malcolm cared, and how well he kept it hidden.

He’s pretty sure the Captain already knows how Malcolm is wired, yet at the same time hasn’t found a way to reach him yet. Enforced conversation over breakfast won’t cut it. Those two work best together when they bypass the words; he’s seen Malcolm light up with just a nod from the Captain, a clap on the shoulder. 

Unlike the Captain, he’s learnt over time not to prod or pry; Malcolm will open up when he’s good and ready. 

At first it took a while to get used to, this unlikely friendship; he doesn’t naturally gravitate towards a guy like Malcolm. He comes from a family who love fiercely and demonstrably, has grown up among people for whom laughter and trust come as easily and as effortlessly as breathing. 

He’s known guys like Malcolm before; the uptight, reserved, humourless type, all spit and polish, by-the-book. And yet it hadn’t taken long before he’d realised just how off his first impression of the armoury officer was.

See, Malcolm is uptight around the Captain and in certain social situations, and he yet relaxes just fine when it’s on his own terms.

He’s reserved, and yet when he chooses to tell you something, you know it’s coming straight from his soul. 

As for being humourless; on the contrary, Malcolm’s sense of humour is dry, subtle, occasionally verging on the melodramatic, and he gets a real kick out of it. Also, rumour has it that Malcolm does a mean impression, usually of him.

And this seemingly by-the-book reputation Malcolm has - well, he’s learnt from personal experience how misleading that one is. Malcolm has a near-reverence for the book, and yet he’s also quite happy to throw it out the nearest airlock if needs be. Trip frequently finds himself simultaneously annoyed and impressed by some of Malcolm’s more creative, left field solutions, like hooking up the phase cannons to the impulse engines, or turning a shuttlepod engine into a rescue flare. Sometimes he thinks privately that Malcolm should have gone down the engineering track. 

Yes, Malcolm’s a barrel of contradictions all right. He’s seen Malcolm shy and overwhelmed when presented with a birthday cake, seen him wince while watching a horror movie in the mess hall, and yet he’s also seen him literally throw himself unhesitatingly at an enemy twice his size, punching and kicking and throttling like some kind of deranged alley cat, and enjoying it, to boot. 

Being friends with Malcolm is hard and frustrating at times, and yet he has a hunch that Malcolm could turn out to be the best friend he’s ever had. 

So if ever there was anyone with a fighting chance of getting Malcolm to agree to be the lead singer in a band, it’s him. 

And he thinks he knows the way to do it. 


	3. Chapter 3

** The Armoury **

“Ensign, Crewman,” Trip says, greeting Tanner and Fitz who are recalibrating the targeting sensors. 

“If you’re looking for Lieutenant Reed, sir, he’s on the bridge,” says Crewman Fitz without looking up from her workstation. 

“I know. I wanted to run something by you both.”

“Without Lieutenant Reed, sir?” says Ensign Tanner. 

“He doesn’t need to know,” Trip replies smoothly. 

Fitz looks up then. “Any armoury-related business should really be run past him first, sir.”

He sighs inwardly. He’d forgotten how intensely loyal Malcom’s people were. Briefly he wonders if his guys in engineering would be as loyal towards him if the roles were reversed. Somehow he doubts it. They’d throw him under the bus at the first opportunity without even realising there was a bus in the first place. 

“It’s not strictly to do with the armoury. Anyhow, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell him about this.” 

Tanner glances subtly over to the weapons locker.

“It’s nothing like that,” Trip says hurriedly. “I just wanted to know if Malcolm - I mean, Lieutenant Reed - has ever talked about any concerns he may have had with the armoury.”

“He hasn’t mentioned anything, sir,” Tanner says. 

“Yes, he’s perfectly content, sir,” Fitz says, coming to stand next to Tanner.

Trip feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and glancing behind him, he sees more crewmen watching him from the upper level. He’s beginning to get the feeling he’s surrounded by a pack of wolves.

He smiles nervously, hoping to diffuse the tension. “Okay, look, we’ve obviously got off on the wrong foot here. Why don’t I start again. You know the open mic night coming up?”

Tanner and Fitz nod, still suspicious. 

“Ensign Mayweather and I are forming a band, and I’m trying to get Lieutenant Reed on lead vocals. I came down here looking for something I could use to give me a little... leverage.”

Fitz and Tanner stare at him for a beat, then they break into relieved smiles. “Oh, I’m sure we can help,” Fitz says.

Tanner is nodding enthusiastically. “He’s always talking about wanting more space to store the portable ammunition - “

“Right, the photonic grenades - “

“- and I know he’d like to install weapons lockers in some of the access conduits - “

“The other day he mentioned depressurising one of the cargo bays so we could practise combat scenarios in zero-G,” Ensign Burrows calls down helpfully from the upper level. 

“Wait, hold on a sec,” Trip says, taking out a padd, “let me get these down.”

* * *

**Later that day: The messhall**

He parks his tray opposite Malcolm.

Malcolm glares at him. “If this is about that band idea of yours again then you can get lost.”

“Just hear me out,” he says, undeterred, “then I won’t ever mention it again. Scout’s honour.”

“All right. This is your last chance. Then you can put a sock in it.”

He blinks. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

Frowning, he takes out his padd and leans across the table. “Okay. The aft storage compartment on F deck, adjacent to the armoury. It’s where I keep the spare injector valve coolant.”

Malcolm narrows his eyes. “So?”

“It would be inconvenient as hell, but I’m thinking we could shift it to the storage unit on D deck.”

“What about the plasma relays in there already?”

“We store them here, see,” he points, “on E deck in the forward storage locker.”

“But that’s where you keep the relay cables.”

“Right, so we’ll move those to cargo bay one.”

“So what would go in the aft compartment on F deck?” 

“Nothing.” At Malcolm’s look of confusion he continues, “see, we remove this adjoining bulkhead here, open up the space, and now you’ve as good as doubled this section of the armoury.”

Malcolm flicks his eyes from the padd to glare at him. “This would have been useful three months ago when I was doing a complete overhaul.”

Trip glares back. “We’re on a starship, Malcolm. In case you haven’t noticed, space is kind of at a premium. The only reason I can store the relay cables in the cargo bay now is because of those connectors we traded from that freighter a few weeks back.”

Malcolm sniffs and hands the padd over. “I’m not sure it would make that much of a difference anyway.”

“Are you kidding me? Your guys told me you’re one step away from storing photonic grenades in your closet.”

“Did they now,” Malcolm mutters darkly, looking around the messhall.

Trip exhales and leans back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. “You know what, screw it. You can have the extra space. I don’t even care.” He drops his hands. “I just don’t get what the big deal is. You’re from a naval background. Surely you’d be used to singing sea shanties, _Heart of Oak_ , that sort of thing.”

“I am. But I’m not in the Royal Navy, last time I checked.” Malcolm takes up his knife and fork again. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to my dinner.”

Trip leans in close again. “Wait, I’ve got one last word for you.” He pauses for effect. “Pyrotechnics.”

Malcolm’s face lights up. “Pyrotechnics?”

And that cinches it. 

* * *

**Later that week**

“This isn’t exactly a comfortable space for rehearsals,” Malcolm says, looking round at the guest quarters. “There’s not enough room to swing a cat.”

“It’s all Travis could find,” says Trip, making last-minute adjustments to the drum set which he’d retrofitted out of some old storage containers and engineering components. 

“Hmm. Where is Travis, anyway? I’m on duty in an hour.”

“He’s helping the bass player. Apparently he had a lot of equipment to carry.”

“Who is the bass player?”

Trip shrugs. “He didn’t say.”

As if on cue, the door opens and Travis enters, sweating and lugging a large box behind him. Phlox follows after him. “Just set it down over there, Ensign.”

Trip and Malcolm look at each other. “We didn’t know you played bass, Doc,” says Trip.

“Certainly,” says Phlox, bobbing his head. “When I heard Ensign Mayweather was searching for a bass player, I thought to myself, why not offer the Denobulan delaquob? I was quite proficient in my youth.”

“The Denobulan delaquob?” Malcolm repeats.

“Yes, it’s what you might call an acoustic synthesiser. Its range is quite broad, and the very lowest note is rumoured to evacuate the bowels of some species. Here, I’ll show you,” and he goes to turn a dial -

“No!” the three men cry in unison.

“Maybe you could stick towards the higher end of the instrument,” Trip says.

“All right,” Phlox says, mildly surprised.

“Okay,” Travis says, pulling the guitar strap over his head. “Let’s start with something simple to warm up.”

“What do you suggest?” Malcolm says, “the chances of us all knowing the same song are pretty slim.”

“What about  happy birthday?” Trip says, with a sly look. “You know that one, right Doc?”

“I believe I’m familiar with it, yes,” Phlox says. “There have been several birthdays among the crew that I’ve had the privilege of witnessing.”

“Fine,” Malcolm says, responding to Trip’s challenge. “Let’s just get on with it.”

Travis starts strumming the opening chords, then he stops. “Wait, whose birthday should we sing to?”

“How about Sluggo?” suggests Phlox.

“Your pet slug?” Malcolm says. “You’ve got to be joking.”

Phlox looks affronted. “I was very fond of her during the brief time she spent onboard Enterprise. I’d like to think that she’s having birthdays, wherever she is.“

“Works for me,” Trip says firmly before Malcolm can protest further. “Play us in, Travis.”

Travis strums the chords again, and Trip joins in with the drums. Phlox pulls some levers and twists some dials, and a rich, satisfying bass fills the room.  


Malcolm waits until Travis repeats the song again, then he starts to sing, trying not to roll his eyes at the ridiculousness of it.

“ _Happy birthday to you_

_Happy birthday to you_

_Happy birthday dear Sluggo...”_

He trails off, self-conscious, as the others stop playing to stare at him. “What?”

“Damn, Malcolm,” says Trip.

He feels himself flush.

“Where’d you learn to sing like that?” says Travis. 

“I didn’t - at least, I hadn’t...” he shifts on his feet. “Look, let’s just keep going, shall we?”

They play the song through a number of times, improvising on the theme, growing more comfortable with each other. 

“Sounds good,” Travis says in satisfaction. “Now we just need to figure out the song we’re going to perform. Any suggestions? Lieutenant?”

“I don’t have any,” Malcolm says. “I prefer classical music.”

“You would,” says Trip.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“There’s nothing wrong with good old-fashioned rock and roll.”

“I never said there was.”

“Gentlemen,” Phlox says, holding up his hands, “there’s no accounting for taste. Now on Denobula we have a rich and varied musical tradition. This song is very popular with my children at the moment.”

He accesses the display on his padd and the sound comes crashing through like splintered glass. The others cry out in pain and clap their hands over their ears.

“TURN IT OFF,” Trip shouts, wincing.

“What was that?” says Travis, his eyes watering.

“Bloody hell, I think it’s given me a nose bleed,” Malcolm says in a muffled voice, tipping his head back.

“Let me see Lieutenant,” Phlox says sharply, pushing Malcolm’s hands away. “Ah yes.If you’ll just come with me to sickbay - carry on,” he says to the others as he ushers Malcolm out. 

Trip and Travis stand there, slightly stunned.

“So Denobulan music’s out,” says Trip.

“Yeah,” Travis says. “Probably for the best. What suggestions have you got, Commander?”

* * *

Later, when Malcolm and Phlox return from sickbay, the latter looking slightly sheepish, they manage to find a song they can all agree on. Over the next couple of weeks, between shifts and during snatched lunch breaks, they rehearse the song together in the empty guest quarters. 

“I wish we could try it in the messhall at least once,” Malcolm says for the third time as he scrutinises his design specs, “the pyrotechnics might behave differently in a larger space.”

“It’ll be fine,” Trip says, also for the third time. 

“Just because you say so doesn’t make it so.”

“Is the smoke machine even necessary?” Travis says, retuning one of his strings. “We didn’t have that kind of thing on the _Horizon_.”

“It’s necessary,” Trip says quickly before Phlox can add his ten cents worth. “Now let’s take it again from the top.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Open mic night**

The evening kicks off with a poetry reading, a spoken word piece and an operatic rendition of the Starfleet anthem.

Then the atmosphere changes when Hoshi plays a beautiful, intricate piece on the erhu, accompanied by Crewman Rossi on the noble cello. The music evokes images of rippling waters, whispering leaves and rain so soft and poignant that it brings a tear to the eye of some of the more homesick members of the crew. 

The last notes of the strings fade away and there is a collective sigh. The audience claps gently in appreciation, unwilling to break the peace that has descended. 

Archer turns to T’Pol, smiling. “Quite something, huh?” Even T’Pol cannot disagree. 

“Indeed,” she replies. “They are most proficient players.” 

The audience murmur quietly among themselves, waiting in anticipation for the next performance. 

* * *

“I’m not sure we should be the ones following Hoshi,” Malcolm mutters as they carry the instruments and mic stands onto the impromptu stage. “Our performance doesn’t fit with theirs. It’s all wrong, tonally.” 

“Crewman Rossi’s due back on the bridge now,” Travis replies, grunting as he drags the Doctor’s delaquob into view. “I had to plan the running order around everyone’s shift patterns.”

“How very rock and roll.” 

“Malcolm,” Trip hisses. “Would you quit worrying and give me a hand with these drums?”

Meanwhile, Hoshi retakes her seat next to Liz Cutler. “That was beautiful,” Liz says wistfully. “I wish I’d learnt to play an instrument.”

“It’s never too late to start.”

Liz nods towards the stage. “Have you got any idea what they’re going to sing?”

“The Doctor said something about radiation I think, and dragons...” Hoshi frowns. “I’m not too sure. They’ve been pretty tight-lipped about it.”

They watch for a while as the men set up the equipment. 

“It’s strange seeing them out of uniform,” Liz comments.

“I think Lieutenant Reed wanted to wear his but he got out-voted.”

“I’m glad; the jacket suits him. Makes him look a little edgy.”

Hoshi nods in agreement, although to her eye the jacket doesn’t seem like the kind of thing the Lieutenant would buy; she guesses it was a gift from someone, his sister, perhaps. Meanwhile, Travis is relaxed in a T-shirt and jeans, and Commander Tucker is clean-looking in a shirt. Doctor Phlox is wearing his usual attire. 

It strikes her that, since coming aboard Enterprise, she’s seen all of them - with the exception of the Doctor - in varying states of undress. The decon chamber, obviously. Travis in his climbing gear. That time when Tucker and Reed came back from Risa in their dressing gowns. 

She smiles at the memory, and is about to lean over to share these reflections with Liz, but then something stops her. Because these moments are funny, but at the same time they also reinforce how human these men are, for all their training, ranks and responsibilities. And perhaps that makes her a little protective of them.

Besides, they’ve seen her looking less than professional too, particularly Lieutenant Reed; she still cringes at the time she appeared half-naked in front of him after losing her top in the crawl space. He’d been the perfect gentleman, averting his eyes in consternation as he handed her an undershirt, and she’d worn it until the Suliban had left the ship, even though it was three sizes too big for her, and even though it smelled of him in a way which was not unpleasant. 

* * *

At the back of the messhall, Crewman Fitz slides into her seat. “Did I miss anything?” she whispers.

“They’re just setting up,” Rostov replies.

“Good. It took me forever to realign that last phase discriminator on the cannon assembly.”

Rostov grimaces. “Couldn’t you have just left it for tomorrow?” 

She looks sideways at Rostov for a moment, contemplating him. He was Engineering, and they did things differently down there. The place was always in a constant state of repair - or disrepair, depending on how one looked at it - with overarching projects that went on for days and cobbled-together botch jobs to tide it all over in the meantime. 

But in the armoury, things were more absolute; it either worked, or it didn’t. The torpedos either fired, or they didn’t. The targeting scans were either aligned, or they weren’t; a near-miss was still a miss. In the armoury, one couldn’t simply down tools as soon as the shift ended, leaving Enterprise defenceless. It was a calling; at least, that’s how she’d heard Lieutenant Reed talk about it. Their  _raison d'être_ was to protect Enterprise, and if that meant working overtime to ensure that the tactical systems were online and functioning, then so be it. 

It would be tempting for the armoury crew to begrudge such an attitude, especially when it contrasted with the more easy-going nature of Engineering, were it not for two things: 

The first was that, from what they’d seen so far, Enterprise was definitely in need of protecting.

The second was that Lieutenant Reed led by example. She’d often seen him working well into the night in the aftermath of some such battle or encounter, illuminated by the glow of the console he was working on, sleeves rolled up, concentrating intently, only looking up when someone placed a fresh cup of coffee next to him, which he’d receive with a tired, grateful smile.

Though he was a hard taskmaster at times, expecting perfection even when it was unreasonable for him to do so, the armoury crew were devoted to him. They all agreed that he needed to have more fun, and this band idea seemed like the perfect way to do it. 

Whether he was actually any good or not was another matter. That was why the armoury crew were out in force tonight, strategically scattered around the messhall in order to put down any potential hecklers who would wish their boss ill. 

* * *

Across the other side of the messhall, Hoshi and Liz are still musing.

“Have you ever seen Doctor Phlox wearing casual clothes?” Hoshi says.

“I once saw him in his pyjamas,” Liz whispers back. “They looked the same as his day clothes.”

She is about to ask for more details when the band take their positions, and a murmur of anticipation sweeps round the room. “I think they’re about to start.”

* * *

Standing there at the mic stand, looking out at the audience, Malcolm swallows, then swallows again. His mouth is dry, and his heart is thudding so hard that he‘s worried the sound will come through over the microphone. He hasn’t felt this nervous since the Captain invited him to breakfast.

Trip counts them in by tapping his drumsticks together - “ 1, 2, 3, 4 - “

And Travis begins strumming and they all start singing softly into their mics. 

“ _Whoa-oh-oh.”_

He’s meant to be harmonising but he can barely get the words out. In fact, he’s practically miming.

“ _Whoa-oh-oh.”_

He sees T’Pol, sitting on the front row next to the Captain, looking distinctly unimpressed.

_“Whoa-oh-oh.”_

Why had he let Trip talk him into this?

The final _ “whoooaaaaaa,” _ drawn out,  and at the same time the Doctor cranks the distortion higher and higher -

then at his signal Trip pounds the snare drum and Phlox drops the bass and Malcolm hits the switch and everything goes

BOOM

and the result is a bone-shattering crash that shorts out several amps and sends half the crew diving for the deck.

In the shocked silence that follows, Malcolm has a split second to think that he should have accounted for the synergetic effect of the reverb from the bass and the drums on the sound system, when Trip jabs him between the shoulder blades with his drumstick. He looks round to see Travis making a frantic hand gesture, _“keep going,”_ and so without thinking, he launches into the first line.

* * *

The explosion is so loud and unexpected that Hoshi shrieks and Liz throws up her hands to shield herself. Amidst all the smoke Hoshi catches a glimpse of Lieutenant Reed’s white, appalled face, and then there is a different kind of shock rippling out across the messhall as he starts to sing.

_”I'm waking up  
_ _to ash and dust  
_ _I wipe my brow and I sweat my rust  
_ _I’m breathing in the chemicals.”_

At the back of the messhall, Rostov’s jaw drops open, and a delighted smile spreads across the face of Crewman Fitz. At the front, T’Pol raises an eyebrow as Captain Archer shakes his head slightly in amazement at his usually shy, retiring tactical officer. 

_“I'm breaking in,  
_ _Shaping up,  
_ _Then checking out on the prison bus,”_

“Did you know he could sing like that?” Liz shouts above the music.

Hoshi allows herself a smile. “I had a feeling,” she shouts back. Although in truth, what she’d heard that day in the messhall had in no way prepared her for this.

It’s not that the Lieutenant looks particularly comfortable up there, because he doesn’t - not in the way that Travis and Commander Tucker both do, swaying in time with the powerful beat that urges the music on. In contrast, Lieutenant Reed is gripping the microphone for dear life, as if the mic stand is an anchor and is the only thing keeping him from being swept away. Yet somehow that edge of desperation only adds to his performance.

“ _This is it, the apocalypse, whoa-oh  
_ _I’m waking _ _up”_

and on that last beat a shower of sparks shoots into the air, and the rest of the band lean forward to shout out the chorus into their mics:

_“I feel it in my bones  
_ _Enough to make my system blow  
_ _Welcome to the new age, to the new age  
_ _Welcome to the new age, to the new age”_

Phlox seems oblivious to the organised chaos going on around him, contentedly twisting knobs and pulling levers to produce all kinds of strange sounds on the synthesiser. 

_“Whoa-oh, whoa-oh, I’m radioactive, radioactive,_

_Whoa-oh, whoa-oh, I’m radioactive, radioactive”_

Emboldened now that the first verse is behind him, the Lieutenant embarks upon the second, loosening up enough to take one hand off the mic stand.

_“I raise my flag  
Don my clothes  
_ _It's a revolution, I suppose  
_ _We'll paint it red to fit right in”_

Hoshi catches the look of fierce delight he shoots Commander Tucker, an expression she’s only seen on the bridge when he’s sitting across from her at his tactical station.

“ _I'm breaking in,  
_ _Shaping up,  
_ _Then checking out on the prison bus”_

Laser beams dance across the walls as the audience responds to the collective energy hurtling out from the stage,

_“This is it, the apocalypse, whoa-oh  
I’m waking up”_

Travis and Commander Tucker are head-banging along with the music as they sing, propelled by the relentless bass that grinds on and on

_“I feel it in my bones  
_ _Enough to make my system blow  
_ _Welcome to the new age, to the new age  
_ _Welcome to the new age, to the new age  
_ _Whoa-oh, whoa-oh, I’m radioactive, radioactive,  
_ _Whoa-oh, whoa-oh, I’m radioactive, radioactive”_

The bridge now, and the others drop out so that it is only Lieutenant Reed and Phlox’s synthesiser, winding together in a haunting siren song. 

“ _All systems go, sun hasn’t died”_

The Lieutenant has the courage now to look at the audience, and the controlled intensity of his voice holds them all captive. Hoshi can think of no other way to describe it; it’s beautiful, and they are entranced.

_“Deep in my bones, straight from inside  
_ _I’m waking up”_

And now fireworks shoot overhead and the smell of gunpowder fills the air as the band set upon the chorus for the final time, and there are more explosions and so much smoke that she’s surprised the ship’s fire suppressant systems haven’t activated. 

“ _I feel it in my bones  
_ _Enough to make my system blow  
_ _Welcome to the new age, to the new age  
_ _Welcome to the new age, to the new age_  
 _ Whoa-oh, whoa-oh, I’m radioactive, radioactive,  
_ _Whoa-oh, whoa-oh, I’m radioactive,_

_Radioactive.”_

The band screech to a stop, and there’s a momentary pause before the messhall erupts into applause. Some, like Captain Archer, are clapping and smiling bemusedly as if they can’t quite comprehend what just happened. Others like Hoshi and Liz and the armoury crew are cheering and whooping.

“Nice job everyone,” Travis beams as they start packing up the instruments, clearing away the stage ready for the next performance. They’re all sweating with the exception of Phlox, buzzing with adrenaline, and more than a little deafened.

“Come on, you gotta admit that was fun,” Trip shouts into Malcolm’s ear as they haul the delaquob off the stage. 

“I found it exhilarating,” Phlox chimes in. “Especially the pyrotechnics. I nearly lost an eye in that first explosion.” 

Malcolm looks suitably abashed. “Apologies, Doctor.”

“We  _have_ to do this again,” Travis says enthusiastically. “Next open mic night.”

“You mean this is going to be a regular feature?” Malcolm exclaims. 

“Why not? Seems like people are enjoying it so far. Right, Commander?” 

Trip nods, amused at Malcolm’s reaction. “Looks like.”

“Perhaps I might even give a solo performance,” says Phlox. “Plumb the depths of my delaquob, so to speak.” The others exchange a look of horror. 

There is just enough time for the band to retake their seats before the next performance starts; a retelling of first contact in mime form.

“So what do you say, Malcolm?” Trip says, leaning over. “There gonna be a next time?”

Smoke is still lingering in the air, and on the ceiling, a black, charred spot is just visible above the place where the first amplifier exploded. Malcolm winces. Still, the laser beams had worked better than he’d expected. Perhaps he could think about incorporating holograms. 

Trip nudges him. “Malcolm?”

He sighs in a show of resignation, unable to hide his smile.

“Go on then.”

_Finis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song the band performed was Radioactive by Imagine Dragons


End file.
